Be Mine

Chapter One

Frankie

It sucks being single. But it sucks even more being single on a holiday. Especially today. Valentine’s Day. Fuck this day, and fuck every florist, jeweler, and chocolate store that makes a profit off it. Throwing the blankets off, I huff in aggravation as I picture all the pink cupcakes and heart-shaped sprinkles I will have to endure at work today.

Padding through my room, I pull my uniform from the mountain of clothing on the chair in the corner. The chair I bought with the intent of using it for reading, instead it’s become the spot for clothes that are deemed not dirty enough to make it to the hamper, but not clean enough to go back in the closet. Pulling a fresh bra and pair of underwear from my top drawer, I walk to the bathroom across the hall.

My apartment isn’t much: a one-bedroom on the third floor of a building built in the mid-eighties. Sure, some of the appliances, and maybe the cupboards in the kitchen, could use some updating, but it’s mine. Filled with mismatched furniture and oddities I found at the flea market. I have eclectic taste, somewhere between gothic and whimsy. It's a little chaotic, but it’s perfect for me and my cat.

Turning on the tap, I wait for the inevitable groan and sputter of the pipes before the hot water kicks in. I toss a shower steamer into the tub and step inside, letting the warm stream flow over my body, inhaling the citrus scent of the steamer. I bought them from a farmers’ market because they’re supposed to be energizing. When you wake up at 4:00 a.m., you need all the help you can get. I take longer than I should to lather my body and wash my long, dark hair, savoring the warmth of the water—and maybe delaying the inevitable. Bakery shifts are early to make sure product is out when the store opens. Being the head cake decorator at a grocery store on a holiday means I’ll have a stack of orders waiting to be filled when I get in. Reluctantly, I turn off the tap, towel-dry myself, and begin getting ready for the day.

Pulling the damp hair into tight space buns, I make sure my bangs are pinned out of my face. As far as my makeup? With some winged eyeliner and a few coats of mascara, it's as good as it’s gonna get today. It's too early and I don’t have the mental capacity to care right now. Valentine’s Day has never been particularly important to me. I guess it’s what the day represents that is like a swift punch to the gut. It’s the loneliness that creeps into the fissures, hollowing out your heart and stamping out any hope that a younger version of myself longed for. A reminder that my twenties are fleeting, and I’ve spent most of those years alone or in shitty, dead-end relationships. Each year that ticks by makes that happily ever after seem more out of reach.

Wow , and the pity party is starting off strong this morning. Pull yourself together, Frankie. Get this day over with so you can console yourself with a box of chocolates and late-night horror movies. Nothing cures feeling sorry for yourself like a good slasher film.

Filling Cosmos’ bowl with food and fresh water, I give the oversized black cat a scratch behind his ear before swiping my keys off the counter and opening the front door of my apartment.

Too preoccupied sorting through the key ring to find the right one to lock the door, I nearly stumble over a package sitting on my welcome mat. I look up and down the hall of the apartment building before crouching down to pick it up. There’s some weight to it, and I question if I should bring it in or leave it in front of my door. I’m sure there was a mistake, and it was meant for someone else, but then I notice my name etched in beautiful penmanship on an envelope tucked neatly under a red bow.

Strange. I can’t think of anyone who would send me a gift for Valentine’s Day. I’ve been single so long I’m practically a born-again virgin. If you don’t count the bullet vibrator and tentacle dildo tucked away in my nightstand.

Laying the package on my kitchen table, I pull the envelope out, careful not to disturb the pretty bow. Turning it over and unsealing it, I slip the card out and almost laugh when I see it’s a handmade valentine made of construction paper. Be Mine is written across the front in glue and glitter. I haven’t gotten one of these since elementary school. It’s actually kind of cute and I wonder if one of the kids in the building made it.

Inside are dozens of tiny little hearts and a poem, written in the same matching glue and glitter as the front:

Roses are red,

Blood is too,

Inside lies a gift,

As proof of my love for you.

Adorable. The blood reference is a little creepy, but I can appreciate the effort in itself. Giving the red bow a tug, it falls away to the table, revealing a matte black box underneath. I begin to tear into the gift, assuming it’s also handmade. I’ll have to ask around, to see which one of my neighbor's kids made this for me. Maybe I’ll bring a batch of cupcakes home tonight to thank them.

Whatever is inside is wrapped many times over in a thick, waxy paper and cool to the touch. I peel away layer after layer until the item in the middle is revealed. Dropping it like it’s on fire and backing up, I nearly trip over myself to get away from the offensive object. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

Raising my shaky hands to my face, something between a sob and a scream rips up my throat as I stare at my blood-soaked fingertips, the way the fluid trickles down the sides and pools in the crease of my palm. The coppery scent permeates the air, overwhelming my senses, causing my stomach to churn and saliva to pool in my mouth. The room begins to close in on me, the walls beating like they have a pulse. My vision goes fuzzy, and then everything fades to black.